Fifty men sprang to their feet, fifty goblets flashed in air. Then utter silence fell. It was as if the shadow of the scaffold at Whitehall already cast its gloom over the loyal hearts of the colonial cavaliers.
The guests broke up into little groups of two and three and wandered back to the dancing-hall, where the fiddles were still working away for dear life at the strains of "The Jovial Beggar" and "Joan's Ale is New." The long lines of reel and brantle formed again, and the dancers refused to give over their merry-making till the gray dawn came peeping in at the window, turning the yellow candlelight to an insignificant glimmer, and hinting of the approaching day and its humdrum duties.
As the guests, one by one, came up to bid their hosts a good-night, which might more appropriately have been a good-morning, Master Claiborne drew Huntoon aside a moment, asking,—
"Will you be at home to-morrow—I mean to-day?"
"Ay."
"Then I may come to see you?"
"Why not stay now, since 'tis already day?"
"Because there be others I must see first, but I will be back before noon."
"And I glad as always to see you, but too sleepy, I fear, to give heed to any business."